"Good God!" he said, and then again, "Good God."
"Yes," she said, watching belated comprehensions flood up into his face, "that was it."
"You mean you had on your hands that night a—"
"Yes, a three-and-a-half-weeks-old one."
"You were broke?"
"Stony."
"Good God! You—poor—"
"I'm not pleading for your sympathy, Mr. Visigoth. Only a square deal.
Will you give it?"
He walked over to his desk, turning on a green-shaded bulb, the clip back in his voice and manner.
"That will be all for this evening, Mrs. Parlow—"